


Four Conversations

by Mab (Mab_Browne)



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Community: sentinel_thurs, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-29
Updated: 2010-07-29
Packaged: 2017-10-10 20:45:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/104085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mab_Browne/pseuds/Mab
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four short conversations spanning about thirty years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Four Conversations

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this for the Livejournal community Sentinel Thursday, to the prompt 'late'.

The night is still, not a breath of air except for the draft of heat from the fire. Helen inhales deeply on her joint, enjoying the buzz, and considers Naomi's face, ethereal in the flickering light of the flames. "Honey. How could you not realise you were that late?"

Naomi smiles nervously, hands clasped over her belly. "I guess I haven't been keeping track of the time. It doesn't seem so important out here."

Helen raises her eyes to the starscape over their heads, and smiles. "I know what you mean. But time still means _something_. 1968 the year that Naomi gets pregnant, 1969 the year that Naomi gives birth."

"Here's to 1969," Naomi says wryly.

"I know somebody. It's probably not too late if you want to..."

Naomi hushes her with a gesture. "No. But you'll - help me out, the next few months?"

Helen takes another puff. "It's what friends are for, honey."

***

Grace takes a nervous puff of her cigarette. She's been smoking them non-stop for the last couple of hours, and the garage smells like an ash-tray. Bill tries not be bothered by it, but the smell makes him feel slightly sick. Or is it just the conversation that he's trying to have?

"Come on, Grace! I think that you're making too much out of a few arguments."

The cigarette is stubbed out, mashed into the old kitchen saucer that Grace uses out here in the garage. She's been sorting out stored things - baby clothes, the second china set that they've never used.

"I always do that, don't I? I'm always making mountains out of molehills, and the great William Nolan Ellison doesn't like that, does he? Don't get so emotional, Grace, don't make me look bad in front of the clients, Grace, don't give a fuck, Grace. I'm sick of being closed up all the time. I'm sick of it!" One of the cups drops off the piled plates, and Grace stares at it before quite deliberately letting go of the rest of the china in her hands. It smashes over the cement floor, the shards bouncing every which way, white as bleached bone.

"Christ! What was the point of that?" Bill says sharply.

"No point at all. It's a little late to be making points." Grace lights another cigarette, her hands shaking. "No point at all," she repeats, looking at him with eyes dry as cinders. The end of the cigarette flares, as everything goes up in smoke.

***

Relief flares over the irritation as Blair finally makes his appearance, weaving through the officers and admin staff while juggling bag and files. "Sorry I'm late, man. Lost track of the time."

"About time you got here. I was thinking about putting out an APB on you." Jim leans back in his chair and winces as Blair dumps his paper-work all over the desk. "Working hard, I see."

Blair shoves an errant strand of hair off his face, now that he has the hand to spare. "Like a dog."

"Like a dog, huh?"

"Mind out of the gutter, Jim. That's great academic thought gestating in those files."

"There's an image I could live without." Jim starts closing down the files on his screen. "Professor Sandburg's little brain child. Still, guess that's better than your damn car breaking down again."

Blair suddenly looks shifty.

"What?" Jim says resignedly.

"Tomorrow..." Blair's expression is decidedly pleading.

"Yes?"

"The car needs some work, and it's booked in for tomorrow, but - "

"But your garage is on the other side of town, and you'd like me to drop you off at Rainier."

"Yeah."

Jim stands up and grabs his jacket. "Okay. I can do that."

Blair lights up with a smile, as he gathers his papers together once more. "You're a pal."

"Best damn friend _you'll_ ever have, Sandburg."

***

Jim's watching the late news. It's the usual crap - soldiers dead in Serbia, flooding in Nevada, a bad pile-up on an Oregon interstate. He watches the smoke rise into the air from a burning car. His eyesight easily interprets the pixelated shadows on the screen. The car is empty. That's something he supposes.

The loft is empty too.

Maybe not truly empty. It has its furnishings, and Jim's sitting there in the middle of it all, a king solitary on his throne in a space empty to the point of echoing. With a start of irritation, Jim stands and grabs the phone, then sits back down again, staring at the tv as he dials a number that he knows pretty well, even though he hasn't called it before. He waits, feeling a little sick, a little lightheaded, as the call tone repeats, and repeats and repeats and then stops, because someone's picked up at the other end.

"Hello?" Blair sounds uncertain and tired. What a surprise. Someone is calling him late at night.

"Hey."

"Jim?" It's startled, and anger stirs in Jim's gut.

"Assuming that you weren't ever going to hear from me, were you, Chief?"

"No-ooo." It's neither convinced nor convincing. "It's late. That's all. Is everything okay?" Worry, now.

"No. It's not okay. You know that."

A deep sigh passes over the line, exhalation from there to here. Jim wishes he could feel it, could feel warm breath waft out of the receiver and across his skin.

"We've been through all this before."

"No. No, we haven't."

"Oh for..." Blair's voice is unsteady a moment, before it firms. "Jim. It's way too late at night for whatever this is about. I'll call you. Tell me what nights you'll be available, and I'll call you, okay?"

"I want to talk to you now!"

"Then talk," Blair challenges, and Jim swallows. He knows what he wants to say, but the words will come out needy and trite and he doesn't know how to make them sound the way that they ought. "Jim... What's the point? Come on, spit it out."

"I was stupid, okay? I was stupid, and I miss you like hell. And if you can't be a cop, then there's something else that maybe I could be. We could figure something out."

"And _you_ couldn't figure any of that out before now?" Blair's anger is a whip crack in Jim's ear. "Fuck you, man, just fuck you!"

Blair can't see Jim, sitting on his couch with his head bowed. "I'm sorry. Blair..."

Blair hangs up at his end, and the flat tone whines in Jim's ear before he ends the connection and puts the phone down on the coffee table and looks at the wall opposite. He wonders if he should count. He wonders how high he might need to count, how many seconds fill hours and days and weeks.

But then the phone rings, and Jim picks it up, fumbling at first.

"Hey," he says. "Sandburg?"


End file.
